PS-The character Larry is a Southern Boy. So the way I wrote out how he talks is not misspelled or in need of a grammar check!
The early morning is gray as a light rain splatters against my window, making a symphony of plinks and plops. I lay on my bed, staring up at a large, brown water stain on my ceiling. Its darker middle is cracked and chipped as the plaster finally begins to crumble a way to the rot. I guess one day the drips from the above apartment room bathroom will be my alarm clock, knowing that each morning the man upstairs takes his shower at exactly 8 AM.
I sigh and close my eyes for a moment, trying to enjoy the soft rain that is slowly turning into a downpour, the pitter-patters quickening their song. With my eyes closed I think. With out a visual distraction to focus on, my mind turns to the daily chores ahead of me. The main one being job shopping. I know I only have enough savings to last me two months of rent in this dingy apartment, the cheapest one I could find that is still in a good, no, scratch that, better section of the city, and enough to buy me groceries in the middle of it all. The landlord, Larry, wasn’t happy when he figured out I’m unemployed, but I promised my savings would pay him. I didn’t tell him how long though, but it satisfied him enough.
My alarm clock goes off with its ear-deafening shriek. It was a back up in case I wanted to sleep in. I open my eyes and roll over to turn off the annoying beast, throwing the covers off my body, and then sitting up, yawning, and stretching my loose muscles. Resting my elbows on my knees, I sit there for a while and stare out the window, blurry because of the rain. On the other side of Lanyard Street is another apartment complex. This one, though, is worn out and dead. It’s now nothing but a crumbling, outer shell of a building with a caved roof and a section of it missing, the wall showing its near empty innards. I remember asking the landlord what had happen and he said that an explosion happened there about a year ago. Apparently someone was cooking up a meth lab in the bathroom with no ones notice and it exploded, causing a raging fire that tore out the rest of the building. 12 people died that day.
“Sadly the methhead that lived there waun’t in building when it destroyed that place and they never found him neither,” Larry spat, his southern boy accent showing as he chewed on his toothpick, switching it to the other side of his mouth. “He practically got a way with murder.”
The building stills stands today only because the city is ignoring the complaining of the citizens that it’s an eyesore to the street. I believe they ignore it because this street isn’t exactly Times Square and the money to bring a crew to take it down isn’t worth it.
“This government don’t care nothin’ about the middle class no more.” Larry continued, signing some papers. I wanted to point out that it isn’t the government concern about the apartment building but the city’s. But instead I kept my mouth shut, smiled tightly, and nodded my head. No point in arguing with someone that gives a roof over your head. I look a way from the building and stand up, walking across the carpet that holds stains from its past. My closet holds only a few pair of cloths, but I’m able to pick something that still looks nice to search for a job. I get out a white, button up shirt with a dark pair of jeans. I guess when I get the money, this shirt could use some kakis instead. With a tie and an over jacket. But it will have to do.
I bring the clothes to my bathroom and set them on the sink. Like the rest of the house, the sink that was probably once white, is a grimy gray in the bowl. The corners of it are chipped and jagged, reminding me to get some of those child protecting, plastic corners to keep myself from cutting myself like I had the night before. The oval mirror with no border hangs above it without damage. I guess it got lucky as this place slowly decays to refinishing. I look in the mirror, staring into the dark, brown eyes of my face. I’m not exactly striking to every woman that happens to pass me on the street, but wouldn’t say I’m someone you talk about behind their back in disgusted whispers. But I remember hearing that when it comes to ones looks you’ll put yourself down. And when it comes to ones personality, you think of yourself better. I run my fingers through my cropped brown hair that is close to be considered a military buzz and strip off my boxer shorts to jump in the shower.
When I turn the knob marked with a red sticker the water squirts and forces its way through the calcium build up on the showerhead to become a decent stream of water. Because of the cool weather that the rain has brought, the water took three minutes to become even lukewarm. I still hopped in, the water waking me up slowly. For a while I just stand in the water, stalling the day ahead. But I soon pick up my pace knowing that I need a job more then anything. One job I remember seeing when I went searching on the street the last time was an opening for a waiter or waitress at some family owned diner called Bill’s Big BBQ. Why they don’t have someone family to do it, I don’t know. I never saw myself as a waiter, mostly because I don’t like talking much to anyone, but it would have to do if I can get it. If not, I guess I better search harder. Just one little job will keep me going for a few months. After that, I need to find one to get me a new place and new stuff. Something to retire to.
I pull on the cloths after the shower and decide to skip breakfast, brushing my teeth before slipping on old, worn-at-the-heel dress shoes. As much as I hate these things because of the foot ache they give me, they are the only nice footwear I own. Before heading out I turn on the TV and check the news for the morning. Of course I catch Fox’s weatherman’s report as soon as I turn it on, showing more rain for the next three days. After that it’s said to be cloudy. Those days the weather will probably be muggy and unbearable. It’s always that way after a lot of rain. At least, that’s what Larry tells me.
“This damn rain gonna bring a heavy cloud on this city here,” He said, scratching his head where his short, dark hair is beginning to thin. “Ain’t no one gonna wanna step outside unless they got some tolerance to hot air.” The weather report ends and goes to the main story of the morning. The reporter, Linda Bellmore, a pretty blonde with soft green eyes, begins the story as the words of a familiar name appear on the screen. The Surgeon.
“In a shocking discovery, the serial killer, nicknamed The Surgeon, has struck again. This time his victim, 20-year-old Emily Teller, was found in her own home, mutilated. Chief of the Holmes County Police Department, Mark West, explains. Hello, Chief.”
The screen splits in half, one section being the newsroom, the other being the outside of the Police Department. A man in his forties with short, brown/blonde hair and brown eyes stands in front of the camera. He holds an umbrella as the downpour of rain continues to fall. There is a small pause as Mark receives the transmission and in that pause I can hear car passing, water spraying from under their wheels and horn blaring.
“Hello, Linda.” Mark says, smiling.
“Now Mark, we have heard that this recent murder of Mrs. Teller has happened mostly like the last. Is this true?”
“Yes,” The Chief says, his smile fading away and replaced with a stone face that shows no emotion. “Like the other two murders of this case, the victim was found in her home, bled out and opened at the waist. Mrs. Teller was four months pregnant at the time and when her body was found, the fetus was missing like the other victims.”
“And there was no sign of a struggle?” Linda presses on. The Chief shakes his head.
“No sign of a struggle or any sort of forced entry. We believe the victim must have let the killer in her home, but we have yet to find a reason why there was no struggle.”
“Are there any clues on who The Surgeon might be yet?”
“At the moment, no. The killer left no evidence. No fingerprints, hairs, etc. But we are still searching hard for any signs of who the murderer might be. The murderer did leave behind another message, though. He left two items, one being a dead frog and a message that reads: ‘Finish the Puzzle’.”
I switch the TV off. This serial killer has been large for the past six months. Each of his victims are two months apart from each other, raising the idea that he will keep to the same pattern. When I first came to the city, they were still trying to figure out the second murder of Emma Trace, who was killed in the same manner and was also missing her five-month-old fetus. The guy obviously has a thing for pregnant women who are young. A strange fetish considered to anyone. But from all the other serial killers I heard about, they all have at least one reason. But I don’t think I could guess it for this guy. I could see a woman killing other pregnant women because maybe she lost a child and she’s mad that others get have them. But a man? Maybe it’s not a man, but I have a hunch it is. A gut feeling somehow.
But that’s why the named him The Surgeon. Not only does he do his job in a surgical manner, but also he does in a way that shows he’s saving it for something. Larry told me that in the first murder The Surgeon left behind a puddle of embalming fluid on the woman’s dresser. And the next he left behind an empty jar. Now there’s a dead frog and note in the mix. I probably cut the Chief off before he probably voices his opinion on what it might be leading up to, but I think it might be the same or close to mine after thinking hard enough.
He’s preserving the fetuses.
-Grim
